


The view from St.Helena's

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Series: Of revolts and revolutions [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Gen, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Napoleonic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 12:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18194438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: “You're going to fall, England. We all will. It's what wedo.”England corks another bottle and steadily ignores him.





	The view from St.Helena's

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from one of the subheadings of That Sweet Enemy by Robert and Isabelle Tombs. For anyone who's interested in Franco-British relations in a more historical sense, that book is absolutely fantastic and I would highly recommend it.

It's the twentieth of November when France offers him a drink. 

England takes it without a second thought. Doesn't matter that France is his only very recently defeated enemy, and England knows he won't stay down for long (he never does, never  _ will _ ), doesn't matter that there's at least a sixty percent chance the wine is poisoned (and  _ French,  _ which is goddamned near the same thing). England  _ needs  _ a fucking drink.

They're in some shitty tavern that France had dragged him to, after signing that treaty in a conference which would have been lovely had it not been in  _ Paris _ .

“You're going to die, you know.”

And if the present company had been gagged bound and blindfolded.

He stares across the table and snarls.

“For the love of God, France. You lost the fucking war, it's not my fault your Emperor is a megalomaniac, and may I remind you we wouldn't even be  _ having  _ this conversation if  _ someone  _ had just kept his prick in his breeches and out of, say, invading the whole of Europe, and not to mention  _ embargoing me-  _ thanks for that, by the way. I did not  _ start  _ this war, France. I ended it. And for the record, I did not  _ restart  _ it either, but I did grind it into a pulp. So fuck off with your philosophising, I've heard more than enough of it over the last, say- oh, I don't know, five hundred fucking years- just shut up, and  _ pass me the fucking bottle. _ ”

France snorts. “You never do change, do you.” He looks like absolute shit, and England likes it that way. With dark circles under his eyes and a nick over his eyebrow, mussed up hair and a dead look in his eyes, he looks absolutely incapable of restarting a Continent-wide war. Which is perfect. England loves it.

He passes the bottle, out of some sort of mockery or sheer obligation England doesn't know and frankly doesn't care. England swipes the bottle out of his hand, thinks,  _ to hell with a glass  _ and drinks the whole thing faster than you could say ‘Incurring National Debt’.

France's brow crinkles in disgust. “You truly are an animal. I should've known better than to try to civilize you.”

“You should have known better than to civilize  _ anyone,  _ you pompous prick, look at where it's got you.”  _ And more importantly,  _ he thinks,  _ look where it's gotten  _ me. 

France laughs. It sounds like someone trying to grate metal. England considers punching him, but in all honesty is too exhausted to do much other than drink, drink, swear and maybe smash a window.

He's thinking this night will result in violence, but he's already had his fill of that.  _ (France pinned to the floor, the tip of England's bayonet digging into the soft space under his ribcage, watching blood pour out all over the garden of the Hougoumont and smiling, smiling with relief and joy and victory and love of the feeling of France's blood being spilt and knowing it was him who did it.) _

But France doesn't start it, doesn't head down that particularly winding road, not this time. No, France leans across the table of the dimly lit tavern and traps England's hand under his own.  

His eyes are as dead sincere as they were when he first declared war, a good fifteen years ago.

“Angleterre,” he says, and England decides he hates the shadows. The way they play over France's face- his shoulders, his face, his  _ eyes-  _ makes it seem like he's hiding something. Then again, he probably is. Perfidious bastard.

France continues to talk. His hand is warm over England's, suffocating like the heat of the tavern. “I am not philosophising for the sake of it. I am philosophising because  _ this applies to you.  _ And believe it or not, I am telling it to  _ help  _ you.”

England raises an eyebrow.

France shrugs. “Or perhaps just so I can have to glory of saying 'I told you so’ two hundred years from now, when all we will be remembered as is history.” Sounds more likely.

England scoffs. “France, I am not an  _ idiot.  _ I do not need your help to run an empire-”

“-No, but it will fall anyways-”

“I rarely fall, France. And when I do I get back up.”

England can't tell whether France is looking at him with pity of anger. “But there are some things you  _ cannot  _ get back up from-”

“Like  _ what? _ ” He says sharply, raises the hand not trapped by France's.

“Like floods, like droughts, like empty coffers, like revolution.” France says, curling his fingers over England's knuckles. He pauses.

“Like an Empire greater than yours.” He says, eyes glimmering a dark blue-black of insanity as he holds England's gaze and refuses to let it go. “Someone who brings new cards to the table. Someone whose eyes gleam when they meet yours, who is at first your companion, then your rival, and turns to something you cannot even hope to hold a candle to.”

He takes in a deep breath.

“Someone who will be what you are to me.”

France must be drunk, and England must be catching flies.

France laughs again, more light hearted than England would ever expect, like England always pictures him, in his mind's eye- always above it all, grinning condescendingly, eyes glittering with menace. Beautiful.

“We fall, England.” He says. “It's what we do.”

“And if I had to lose, there's scarce a person more ironic nor apt to pull the trigger than you.” His smile shows his teeth, but doesn't pass to his eyes.

Words fly out of his grasp, shallow and useless. Everything is turning, turning- the room is too small, France's eyes are too bright, his words too loud, England's heart racing too fast…

He stands.

“I have to go,” he says, tearing his hand from under France's and keeping his gaze off of France, eyes flitting anywhere but to those piercing blue ones- the ragged stools they'd been sitting upon, the table with cracks in it, the empty bottles of alcohol littering their table-  _ anything. _

“Angleterre-” he can't risk looking back.

“I have to go,” he says and keeps walking, eyes trained straight forwards, not on France and his voice, eyes, lips, face, not thinking about the way he looks when he has blood staining his uniform and a grin so wide England thinks it'll split his skull, the way he looks when he kills someone-

_ You'll fall,  _ he hears. The night sky of Paris greets him, released from the suffocating tavern air.  _ You'll fall, and it'll be to someone-someone who you love. _

That was what France had been saying.

_ France loves him _ . To whatever extent France is capable of love.

And the scary part is- the  _ terrifying  _ part is- is-

England loves him back. 

What on Earth is he to do without that  _ fucking  _ frog, that constant thorn in his side, never letting him be, never letting him leave without a challenge, never  _ leaving him the fuck alone,  _ never letting him win, always catching him off guard but at the same time the only person England knows like that back of his hand-

Who keeps  _ winning,  _ even if he's lost the war?

Because that was a ploy. It had to be. Maybe France  _ knows,  _ maybe France wants to exploit his weakness, mix it in with his fears, because France has always known what he fears most-

France would never love him. Ever. All he's ever done was lie to England, why should he start with truths now, of all times? 

It's a trick. It has to be. 

England could swear that even the  _ stars  _ of this city hate him, as he walks back to his room for the night and thinks,  _ oh, well.  _

He decides never to tell France, right then and there. 

They never mention that night again, and France never does reiterate his sentiment, so England decides it was simply some fluke of the universe, some fault in his memory, a break in his psyche after years upon years of ceaseless bloodshed. It had to be. Because there were two rules of his existence, and that night broke both.

Because England couldn't fall, and France couldn't love him.

**Author's Note:**

> -The 20th of November is the day when the Treaty of Paris was signed, after Napoleon’s abdication and the Bourbon restoration. Under it, France’s borders were put back to their 1790 size, and the French military limited, along with the country being put under occupation until 1818. It was signed between France and the UK, Austria, Prussia, and Russia. 
> 
> -Napoleon was exiled to the British colony of St.Helena's off the coast of Africa, hence the title. 
> 
> -During the wars, one of Napoleon's main ways of affecting the generally isolated British was to embargo them. 
> 
> i hope this conclusion doesn't feel too out of place- i haven't worked on this for a while lol.  
> Uh, that's the end for now, and I think for forever, so I hope you guys enjoyed this series!! Thanks to everyone who read and commented, and especially to those who followed it all the way through!


End file.
